


It's a bit cold-

by CravenWyvern



Series: DS Extras [82]
Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Character Death, Gen, Hypothermia, Old Writing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:27:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26792140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CravenWyvern/pseuds/CravenWyvern
Summary: The original name for this three year old fic was 'itscoldoutsideandmaxwellispathetic'.
Series: DS Extras [82]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/688443
Comments: 1
Kudos: 18





	It's a bit cold-

**Author's Note:**

> So...100th fic? I suppose picking up one of the first stories I ever wrote truly focused on Maxwell and finally posting it _might_ commemorate the start of these three, near four years of writing I've done <~<
> 
> According to the date, I wrote this on October 10th, 2017, when I was only playing Don't Starve on the phone and had no clue how Don't Starve Together even _worked_. This was probably around the time I finished Adventure Mode, when I still had Wilson as my main. 
> 
> That was. Quite a bit ago, ha.

Damn those hounds.

Maxwell huddled next to his makeshift fire, arms crossed over his chest with his hands stuffed under his armpits, trying to not shiver and failing terribly. It was too cold, and it was going to get colder when night finally falls, to blanket the world in inky darkness and invisible shapes. 

It was already snowing, small specks drifting down around him, and he knew it would get worse soon.

Damn the touchstone as well. He hadn't realized it would be so far from camp, hadn't remembered that he should've dropped a few items off next to it before winter had hit fully.

A thermal stone would be very helpful right about now, along with some more wood or charcoal. 

Maxwell gazed at the small fire, watching the flames lick at the sticks and pinecones he had managed to gather up before dusk had started to give way to the dark. He didn't know if the fire would survive the night.

The former magician rubbed his arms, trying to get feeling back into them, hunching forward even more with his knees pulled up to his chest. Just the act of removing his hands from his body drove the meager warmth from them, fingers aching and locking into gnarled claws even as he pressed them close to his chest in an attempt to warm them. The fire popped, a spark of an ember expelled from its depths just to sizzle out in the light powdering of snow, and Maxwell closed his eyes, sighed heavily through his nose.

He hadn't expected to die today, hadn't expected the hounds to be quite so numerous. The pack had arrived so suddenly, almost no warning, and they had surprised him. The white beasts were thin, desperate even, and their vicious natures were undaunted by his rather lackluster attempts at protecting himself, tearing the spear from him and shrugging off the power of his crystal tipped staffs. 

He didn't know if he wanted to go back so soon after being revived; the creatures were hungry, and his body was probably little more than bare bones, but the same could be said for his camp. Everything organically made was probably consumed and ravaged, and he didn't think he could handle seeing that right about now.

It had taken too much effort, setting up that camp, and going back to a ruined mess would do no good for his already low moral.

The fire shrunk as the darkness fell, heavy and thick, the snowfall increasing ever so slowly. Outside of the lights radius he could hear movement, snow that would be undisturbed in the morning crackling under shadow weight, and for a moment Maxwell considered taking those few steps out from safety into death's embrace.

He'd wake up in the morning, but it would be just as cold as it was now, possibly even more so.

The former magician decided to weather the cold instead and scooted forward, snow melting into his pants and making him shiver even more, teeth chattering even as he fought to keep his jaw still. He raised his gloved hands to his mouth, huffing warm air into the fabric and rubbing his hands together to get feeling back into them. The scowl on his face hardened even more when that failed, gritting his teeth as he folded his arms and stuffed his hands back under his armpits, leaning forward to press his knees against his chest and huddle close to the lowering fire.

Perhaps the dark will get her claws on him before the cold after all.

He didn't like the fact that he couldn't feel his fingers. He didn't like the fact that he couldn't feel his toes and that his face felt frozen, even as he licked his tongue over his lips and immediately regretted it, the cold fighting every attempt he made to warm some part of him up, squinting his eyes before closing them, trying to fold even smaller to conserve body heat.

He should have never made winter a thing, should've gotten rid of it the instant he realized someone was going to throw him off the Throne. It was fun, watching everyone else die from the cold, but him being down here now?

He'd rather not.

It was silent, only the sprinkles of cold and wet soaking into his clothes as the snowfall continued to lazily drift down, the shifting outside of the light fading into patience. Perhaps, thought Maxwell, eyes squeezed shut and pressing his face against his knees, hunching his shoulders as he shivered even more vigorously, perhaps if there had been stars, it would've been a little more bearable.

Unfortunate that he never addressed the issue of the void of nothing that made the sky above his world, only the moon hanging in balance, and nothing could be seen tonight. Only his small campfire, and even that would go out sooner or later, probably sooner.

_The cold or Her?_

Personally, as of right now, Maxwell would choose the cold. At least that had no personal anger towards him that manifested in killing him slowly and torturously, though he knew she had a right to that anyway.

Didn't mean he always had to make it easier for her.

He was growing tired. Touchstone or not, being hunted by his own favorite creations severely drained him.

Or, it could be the cold.

And it was terribly cold, a wave of shudders rushing up his spine for a moment, making his teeth clack together loudly before it passed. Maxwell opened his eyes, blinking blearily at the small fire, thoughts flagging. He didn't like the cold, not one bit.

How did the others die from this then? He's watched enough times, he knew what they did when it was too much for their mortal bodies, malnourished and over stressed from their own idiotic mistakes in surviving. 

Burning things was the go to, wasn't it? Forests and bushes and the like, just for them to run or even just step into, suffering the burns just to keep moving forward for another few feet. A repeated cycle until either cold, fire, or some creature or hallucination did them in.

Funny, how he had watched them with such glee, and now here he was, someone else getting their kicks from his suffering.

Maxwell batted the idea of setting fire to the forest surrounding him, really gave it some thought, but then decided against it. Mostly his decision settled because his body was feeling oddly stiff and he didn't think he could stand up, but the other reasonings in mind were precious resources he may end up destroying. 

Spiders, berries, carrots, even the foolish pigmen. He may have a use for them later, when he wasn't at death's door. He'd rather not do something stupid beforehand.

Maxwell wheezed out a breath of air, slow and cold, and then another violent scattering of shivers made him curl up even more, gritting his teeth and holding his breath for a long moment. The fire cracked at him, ash settling in between the few charred logs left, and the former magician blinked slowly at it, the background tremors in his spine fading away.

After a moment a fancy struck him, slowly unfolding one of his arms and reaching out, hand curled and stiff in frozen leather, and he hesitated for a moment before dipping his hand into the feeble flames.

He stilled, waiting, blearily squinting his eyes at the orange fire before pulling his hand back, sucking in air between his teeth, lips cold and peeled almost into a snarl.

He hadn't felt a thing, not even when spirals of smoke started to rise from his glove.

He was going to die, again, and the sudden blow of realization fell on him like an anchor, pushing against his back and crushing his chest, making it difficult to breath for a moment. He curled his hand back to his body, a vain attempt to get feeling back into it, his breathing slow and calculated as he dryly chuckled behind clenched teeth.

He was going to die, and from one of the more mundane of things he's created here, not even something special. The hounds had been, no, _were_ his, so succumbing to their hunt was something he could accept. They were meant to kill, to hunt and feed, whether on the survivors or him did not matter. The cold, however?

Anyone could die from the cold, everyone died from the cold, man, woman or other, child or beast, and the crushing logic of him falling to such a simple natural event was making him alarmingly excited.

Obviously the King would die of the cold at some point, obviously he'd make such a mortal mistake in which he was destined to suffer from the lower temperatures, it was so obvious!

To humble a King with such a simple, normal death, to not honor him in any way whatsoever!

Another wheezy puff of air escaped him, an almost musical humph of laughter, and Maxwell pulled his hands away from him and dug them into the building snow at his sides, ignoring the ever so slight hint of a bite that it gave him, the melt slowing as his own temperature dropped. He almost threw snow into the pit of feeble flame, almost extinguished it in a fit of hysteria, but the flickering shadows in his peripheral vision reminded him of the presence outside of the light. As if he was going to give her that satisfaction, here and now, cold and stiff and feeling ever so slightly sick, nausea flipping in his belly before another wracking of shivers took him, shoulders hitching as he wrapped numb hands and arms around his chest and huddled close to the fire, body trembling and eyes squeezed shut as it practically gave him physical pain, feeling spines of cold replace every bit of warmth his body generated.

It only lasted a second, him hissing in air in slow, deep breaths, and then he forcefully uncurled, face twisted into a grimace that made his face sting in pain.

The fire would go out soon.

He'd rather let the cold get him first.

The King needed a simple, humble death, at least once; he needed to be put on the same level as the other foolish idiots, he needed to feel equal to their stupidity and gross mistakes, their deaths and suffering.

The King needed to die, and he needed to die from the mundane, not the mystical.

Maxwell tried to stand up, to possibly show off his height, his lasting will, one more time to her in the darkness, to feel in control for a moment, but his knees locked and he crumbled down, not even feeling the cold that bit into his legs and hands, that soaked thoroughly into his suit and pants, socks sodden around his numb feet. His joints ached for a moment, pain sharp and drilling, before it dulled out into another wave of shivers.

He curled his face against his arms, hissing out some sort of sound, laughter maybe, just as it stopped, as the shaking stopped and the numb silence enveloped him once more.

**Author's Note:**

> ...I set a goal for myself, a long time ago, for when I reached 100. I suppose I should hold true to it ?
> 
> My tumblr is [here](https://rottingbirdies.tumblr.com); I'm open to requests/prompts/whatever for a limited time, and I'll pin a post for the few rules and such that'll outline it. 
> 
> I never thought I'd get this far, nor stay in a fandom for this long. Idk if I even accomplished much, not really, but hey. Reading fic is fun, and some people ended up liking the things I scribbled down, and that means something or other, I suppose.
> 
> Thank you, to those from the very beginning who've long since moved onto other fandoms, to the many writers who've shaped a very interesting history in as little as three years for headcanons and fan theories, and those who've left comments on my own odd writings - and I apologize for never answering back! I am not very good at it, and I don't wish to make things more awkward then they've certainly already gotten <:{
> 
> And, of course, a grand appreciation in general for this silly game to exist in the first place. It's been a very...stressful, year, but, here's to all the updates and reworks ahead! Don't Starve has become my favorite game and that will probably not change anytime soon, so...I don't expect myself to stop writing fanfics anytime soon, haha ha... *^*;
> 
> Thanks again, to all those that need thanking (and that, I suppose, is quite a large number), and, uh. Here's to hoping things get better for everyone in any amount of small, meaningful ways for the next whatever indefinite amount of time that is to come...?
> 
> (Haha, ha, uh, sorry for any odd, incomprehensible way of wording things, it's another reason I...don't respond to comments, sorry, again.)


End file.
